


Marauders- The First Year

by Lizacharley9845



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 22:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6772477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizacharley9845/pseuds/Lizacharley9845
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story following the Marauders through their first year at Hogwarts. Mentions other characters. Canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sirius- A New Start

**Author's Note:**

> Sirius just before starting Hogwarts. This is kind of how I imagined his home would be the day before he goes to school. In this Andromeda has gone off with Ted Tonks earlier that summer.

Sirius’ POV-  
32st August 1971  
The soft glow of the afternoon sun caressed the square. It removed the grime, made the piles of garbage less noticeable and gave the shattered windows of some of the houses a strange, ethereal beauty, as if winter’s frozen spiders’ webs had been laid across them. The sun had even tempted some of the usually reclusive residents out of their dingy houses and on to the small, unkempt area of scrubland in the centre of the square, which may once have been intended by the designers of the square as an ornamental flower garden for the enjoyment of square’s previous, more successful, residents. They, for that brief sunny moment, even considered a little gardening and renovation. They built castles in the clouds in their heads and imagined the square as a place of beauty, with clean, beautiful, well-kept houses, a peaceful position and visualised a rose garden in the centre. Maybe, for a brief time, they shared the visions of the square’s Victorian architects. 

Then they examined the shattered windows and discussed the possible cost of replacing them with neighbours whom, perhaps, they had not spoken to for a few months, and met other residents from across the square who they perhaps only knew by sight. They even considered organising a mass clean-up of the area. Mothers watched children, teenagers fell in love, children played and fathers smoked. All seemed to be at peace with the world. 

However, deep down, they all knew that as soon as the sun went down, or a cloud crossed the sun, it would be business as usual. The grime would remain uncleaned, the rubbish uncollected and more windows would be shattered. The scrubland would just be scrub and all would return to normal and the residents of Grimmauld Place would retreat back into their houses. For his perfect moment, though, they pretended to be ignorant. 

The sunlight leapt through the only clean and polished windows on the square. Although, it could be debated whether or not this rare house was actually on the square at all, as most of the neighbourhood did not know that it existed and saw the numbering discrepancy between numbers eleven and thirteen as a mere quirk.

The sun’s rays landed on a small, dark-haired boy squirming in his best clothes on a Louis XIV sofa. He was reasonably tall for his age of eleven, with a mischievous smile and usually exuding an aura of confidence. Now, however, he was merely squirming in discomfort. He did not want to be having afternoon tea with his mother; he wanted to be outside, playing, like the other small boys on the square, even though he knew that he would never actually be allowed to play with them. They wore dirty, old and patched clothes and knew nothing of magic. He was a member of, according to his parents, most important, wealthy and influential houses of the wizarding world and in brand new dress robes, however, at the moment, he would have gladly switched places with any of those boys playing in the street.

‘Sirius!’ At his mother’s reprimand he immediately stopped fidgeting. ‘Your aunt and cousin will be here soon, and, as the heir of the Black family, I expect you to behave! And sit still! Sometimes I wonder if you actually are my son at all. Regulus never gives me nearly as much bother as you.’ Walburga Black, described most commonly by the word indomitable, turned her eyes from her eldest in disgust and returned them to the window. Watching and waiting. Although Sirius and his mother, like most member of the family, greatly resembled each other, physical characteristics was where the similarity ended in this case. 

A minute or so later the doorbell rang; the event which Walburga had been waiting for and the reason why Sirius had been forced into dress robes. The sounds of Kreacher the house elf taking outer robes and escorting the guests to the parlour drifted up the stairs. As usual, the muggles outside had not noticed the two arrivals, or the appearance and disappearance of the house. They were too busy soaking up the August sun.

‘Good afternoon, Walburga dear. How are you? And the family? Good afternoon Sirius. He’ll be starting Hogwarts this year, will he not? Have you seen the state of those muggle children out there? Absolutely disgusting! I am surprised that you can abide it here sometimes, I really am!’ Mrs Druella Black paused for breath following her tirade as soon as she entered the green furnished, rather dingy parlour. She was a reasonably tall woman, with blonde hair like her daughter, who tended to defer to Walburga, her elder and a member of the Black family not just through marriage. Walburga had also managed something Druella had not. Walburga had two sons, Druella only had three daughters, one of whom had been disowned that July. No one in the Black family spoke of it, or of Andromeda’s new, muggle-born husband, Ted Tonks. 

‘An absolute disgrace!’ Agreed Walburga. ‘Filth all of them! Druella, some tea? Narcissa, dear, why are you not sitting down?’

Narcissa, her cousin’s elder and opposite in looks, at that moment shared with him one striking characteristics, a look of this being the last place on earth she wanted to be. She reluctantly sat beside Sirius and took tea, but said nothing.

‘I hear Narcissa did well in her OWLS.’ Walburga directed at Druella whilst passing the sugar. Though, her tone of voice indicated that this was perhaps not something to be proud of.

‘A little too well if you ask me! What man wants to marry a woman who is cleverer than him, I ask you. I will also be surprised if her boyfriend still wants her after this summer’s business.’ Narcissa’s mother paused to give a small shudder. Her daughter glared at the floor but still said nothing. To Sirius she seemed unusually quiet, usually his cousins spoke with him whilst the adults talked over them.

‘She is dating that Malfoy boy, is the not? A good, pure family.’ She smiled benevolently at her niece, whose gaze was still focussed on the floor.‘ Anyway, as I was saying, naturally Sirius received his letter last month. Another Black for Slytherin. His father and I are so proud. Then all we have is Regulus and after that on to the next generation of the family.’ She attempted to catch her niece’s eye again, but was still unsuccessful. ‘Toujours pur. We bought him his things the day after we got the letter, naturally. I suppose we shall be seeing you at King’s Cross station tomorrow. Full of muggle filth and half-bloods and mudbloods as usual.’ Sirius shuddered as he remembered the trip. For once in her life Walburga seemed proud of Sirius, which worried him. He was not one hundred per cent sure of some of the teaching of his family, Andromeda especially had made him doubt them. The idea of being in Slytherin did not appeal, but what other house would a Black be in? For the next half an hour he sat, eating biscuits, drinking tea and daydreaming about the next day whilst his mother and aunt talked, with his cousin occasionally joining in. He was excited about the train journey, and getting away from his family, from this house. However, some of his doubts persisted. He felt guilty leaving Regulus, his younger brother, at the mercy of Orion and Walburga but still. Would he make friends? Would he do well? Would he be in Slytherin? 

Sirius’ focus returned to the conversation when the sun had moved further down in the sky and the muggle residents of the square had begun to retreat back to their houses. The spell of the sun was starting to break.

‘… Narcissa, kindly do not look so morose, it does not suit you. Walburga, we need to get going. Cissa needs to finish her packing and prepare for the morrow. We will see you then I suppose.’ Mrs D. Black and her daughter rose, followed by Walburga and her son and the party proceeded downstairs. The guests collected their outer robes and goodbyes were shared.

Just as the guests were leaving, passing the troll’s leg umbrella stand, Sirius felt his cousin catch his arm, the first time she had recognised his presence all afternoon. Her grip was harsh and her nails pressed into his arm. The adults were too busy talking to notice.

‘You may have been Andromeda’s favourite, but you will not embarrass me at Hogwarts! Now is the time to decide where your loyalties lie. Do you understand?!?’ She hissed and then released his arm. Sirius was left standing in shock as his relatives bid him farewell and shut the door with the snake shaped knocker behind them. Andromeda, before she had left, had always been his favourite cousin, but Narcissa had always treated him cordially before. Bellatrix had always been the cruel, unpredictable one. 

Families, he thought, as his mother yelled at him for looking, in her words, ‘gormless’ when Druella and Narcissa had visited and not packing correctly.


	2. Remus- A Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus' thoughts on the evening before he goes to Hogwarts. Has a bit of a flashback

Remus POV-

31st August 1971- Evening-

‘Are you sure that Remus will be alright at Hogwarts? I know that he is bright of course, but will the other children accept him? He is so quiet and has met so few children of his own age. What if they find out about his condition?’ 

From his vantage point behind the dark wood bannister on the upper floor of the small cottage, the boy who was the topic of conversation could see his parents’ worried expressions. His parents, Lyall and Hope Lupin were just approaching middle age, but they looked much older. The constant fear and regular upheavals of moving house even few months for the past six years had taken its toll on their features. Lyall had always been quite a small man with light brown hair, now grey, and bright eyes which belayed his vast intellect, although now they often looked world-weary and worn. Hope had been beautiful, with chestnut curls and a ready smile, but she had lost that long ago and her once cheery, plump face had become gaunt. Both currently shared their usual worried expressions, which had worsened since the start of March that year, when Dumbledore had come to visit and Remus’, the boy by the bannister, life had utterly changed.

‘I am sure that he will be alright.’ Lyall comforted, leaning across the rather shabby sofa in the centre of the small, wooden-beamed living room of their current cottage, to pat her hand. ‘Dumbledore is the greatest wizard of this age and certainly the best Hogwarts headmaster so far. He seems certain that Remus’ condition will not adversely affect his schooling and I trust Dumbledore. Anyway, like you said, our son in bright and kind so I am sure that he will make friends quickly. As for keeping them, unless he broadcasts his condition, which I know he is clever enough not to do, all should be well.’ Hope smiled hesitantly, seeming somewhat comforted by her husband’s response. They then fell silent as Lyall began to read a report on some apparition activity nearby, and Hope resumed knitting a large red and gold scarf.

At that point Remus decided to return to bed, deciding that, as his parents seemed to think that he would do well at school, he should allow his worries to be somewhat alleviated and he could sleep. He tiptoed carefully across the landing, avoiding the floorboards he knew creaked, and into his gabled bedroom. It was a very small room, but cosy. Books covered the walls, although there were gaps which his schoolbooks usually occupied. Before March Remus had known that he would always be home educated, but then this fact become obsolete and the books were now carefully packed in his leather trunk. The rest of the room was filled with the wardrobe, desk, a toy chest which was rarely used, and the bed. His mother’s handmade rugs dotted the floor in an attempt to make the wooden room even more homely. They did not entirely succeed in the eyes of the room’s young occupant. He had moved house so many times, to ensure that his lycanthropy was not notice and the family not ostracised, that home was wherever his parents were, not in a particular house, cottage or county.

The small, rather peaky, light-brown haired boy crept under his blankets and extinguished the gas lamp. As he rested his head on the pillow he let his mind wander, wander back to the first of March 1971, the day his life and prospects had completely changed.

1st March 1971-

The day had started normally, to be honest. The family had just moved house again to their current cottage in a rural part of north Wales. Previously they had been in Hampshire but the wizards in the community had begun to connect Remus’ regular periods of illness, and his parents’ reluctance to allow him to play with other children, to the lunar cycle and people would soon have begun to call werewolf. They always moved when the rumours started, it was safer for all involved that way. Remus had not minded the move, he had not known anyone in his old village particularly well and as long as his parents were with him all was well. They were a very close family, which partially made up for the lack of contact he had with children of his own age.

Remus’ mother had woken him later than usual, had given him a full cooked breakfast and fussed over him as he ate. This was mostly due to the fact that he had had a particularly rough transformation a couple of days before. His wolf form had been growing stronger; it had nearly broken out of the outbuilding in which he had been confined, causing his father to have to do a quick bit of complex magic to avert catastrophe. As usual, Remus had emerged with an assortment of cuts, bites and a feeling of guilt as in the back of his mind he always knew that his lycanthropy was the reason for his family’s regular moves. Mostly that feeling soon disappeared, though, as his parents hugged him, patched him up and sent him to bed. Lyall had also vowed to be more careful in the future. Hope had just stroked her son’s hair until he fell asleep.

Remus’ father had already gone to work and as soon as the boy had finished his breakfast her went to the desk in his room and started on his school work. A family discussion had occurred over Remus’ schooling, and the result was that he had started first year work under the supervision of his father soon after Christmas as he was unlikely to ever be able to attend school. The boy was bright and was already half way thought the work, though he only learnt the theory as he could not yet usually use a wand because of his age. Schoolwork was invariably finished by the time his father got home, when he would any questions he had and the family would spend the evening together.

Lyall had just got home as usual and was talking about his day, which had involved a particularly vicious poltergeist, with Hope in the kitchen whilst she cooked the family’s tea. Remus himself was playing on the multi-coloured rag rug by the warmth of the fire in the living room. His parents had allowed him to play with one of his eleventh birthday presents early; a particularly magnificent set of gobstones.

‘Luckily we were called in early or it could have done some real damage. How was your day? And how had Remus been?’ He heard his father say.

‘Mmh, pretty good and he seems … Wait, was that someone at the door?’ Silence. No one ever visited them. Hope and Lyall always discouraged visitors with one lie or another.

With his wand drawn, Lyall slowly proceeded to and opened the old oak front door. An elderly man with a long white beard and twinkling blue eyes faced him. The man’s dark blue robes matched his pointed, star encrusted hat, which brushed the roof of the lean to protecting the door from the worst of the elements.

‘Good evening, Mr Lupin.’ Was the man’s greeting. Lyall appeared rattled.

‘Dumbledore. I am sorry but you cannot come in. We have just moved house and there are still boxes everywhere. My son, Remus, also is sick. Very contagious. Nasty business. I am sorry but you must go. Good evening.’

‘It is actually Remus I wanted to speak to you about. He turns eleven soon, doesn’t he? But if he is ill I shall return later, I don’t mean to intrude. Good night.’ Remus’ father closed the door with a relieved sigh.

‘Who was is, dear?’ His wife called to him. She could not keep the slight nervous tremor out of her voice.

‘It was nothing, here, let me help you with those crumpets.’

Both parents were so distracted that they did not notice the slight creak of the back door, or the small draft of icy spring air which caressed the floor, causing the rags in the rugs to move slightly and the curtains to gain a water-like motion for a second or so. They also missed the pause in the sounds of their son playing, which before had drifted into the kitchen through the open door to the hall. By the time they had relaxed enough to focus, the sounds had resumed. 

‘Ah, Remus, here is your … Who is this?!?’ Hope exclaimed, which was accompanied by the sound of breaking china as the plate she had been carrying dropped out of her hands. ‘Lyall!’

Her husband close to ran into the room to find his wife standing by the remains of their tea, and his son sitting happily in the midst of a gobstone game with the man he had prevented, he thought, from entering the house only five minutes before. 

‘I thought I had told you that Remus was sick and we couldn’t receive visitors now, Professor?’

‘I understand that you want to protect Remus,’ the professor replied, ‘however, I am well aware of his condition and wish to make you a preposition. Please, sit down. Maybe we could have some crumpets whilst we talk. I do love them. Your son here is incredibly good at gobstones; he could join the club if he comes to Hogwarts in September.’ That gained a slight gasp from Remus. His parents exchanged doubtful glances of incredulity. ‘As you probably know I am not headmaster of Hogwarts and I believe that every young witch and wizard deserves an education. Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, and I have been discussing Remus’ condition and believe that it is manageable enough for him to attend Hogwarts this year. We would take him to a secure location for his transformations and would obviously keep his condition a secret. I will explain the precautions that we intend to take further in a letter closer to the time. He is a very clever child and it would be a shame for him not to reach his educational potential.’ Dumbledore smiled at the boy before him, who looked from his parents to the headmaster. His face showed a mixture of hope and fear.  
‘Would I really be able to go? Really?’  
‘Yes, I believe it could be possible.’  
Hope and Lyall sat down, and began to talk with Dumbledore whilst Remus was absorbed in reading his Hogwarts letter, which the professor had just handed to him.

31st August 1971-

Now, on the eve of the start of term, Remus smiled to himself and rolled over. Despite everything, he could not wait to start school tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was realistic- found it kind of hard. Thanks for reading.


	3. James- The New Broom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer to the Marauders meeting for the first time. James and his family prepare for school on the morning of the 1st September 1971.

James POV- Morning 1st September 1971-

‘James, James, wake up! We need to leave in less than two hours!’ Euphemia Potter called up the carpeted stairs of their west country home to her son, and then went off to check that breakfast was ready. The object of her calls had, in fact, been awake for some time, gazing at the ceiling, lost in thought. However, at his mother’s calls he sprung up, sprinted across the dark-wood floor of his room and dived almost headfirst into the bathroom. Ablutions occurred at light speed, until it came to arranging hair. James Potter stood for around ten minutes carefully arranging his black hair, back combing it and mussing it, until it seemed messier than when he had got out of bed in the first place. Once that important ritual had taken place, the boy headed back into his room. It was already bedecked in red in expectation of the Hogwarts house James expected to join; scarlet curtains, dark wood floor with red rugs, crimson four poster bed and posters of the Chudley Cannons quidditch team covering almost all of the available wall space. James quickly put on the jeans and t-shirt his mother had left out for him and then paused thoughtfully in front of one of the posters. Considering for a moment, he quickly pulled up a chair and removed it from the wall, rolled it and then threw it into the already overflowing trunk in the corner of the room. The contents, in the loosest sense of the word as many were spread in an abstract way around the trunk, seemed to include black robes, numerous spell books, the closest being ‘The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk’ and ‘A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch’, a cauldron and a few bags of owl treats. The owl which these treats were for was sitting, looking disgruntled, in a cage close to the trunk.

‘Are you nearly ready?’ Came the second call from his mother. At that, James quickly checked his reflection in the mirror by the door of his room and ran downstairs, slamming the door behind him. He found his parents already seated at the breakfast table in the morning room. The yellow paint on the walls giving the early morning light from the sunrise an even warmer look, it was already possible to tell that it was going to be a balmy late summer day, with temperatures, according to the Muggles, reaching over twenty degrees Celcius. James did not know this of course, he was completely focussed on the array of breakfasts he could choose from. He swiftly decided on toast because, although he would be the last to admit it, he was a little nervous about the coming day. Fleamont and Euphemia watched their son as he ate, occasionally exchanging glances over his head. Both looked a little strained, they were also worried about their son and, although they knew that he would enjoy school, part of them wanted him to stay at home, with them.

Fleamont and Euphemia had not expected to have a child, by the time they had retired they had pretty much accepted that all they possessed would go to Fleamont’s brother Charlus’ family. They had been both amazed and ecstatic when Euphemia had discovered that she was pregnant with James. He was their miracle and they doted on him. If someone had told the couple that their son was a little spoilt, they would just have smiled, he was their little boy, why shouldn’t they fuss over him a bit. Normally, they were always smiling around James, which made them look a little younger. However, the worry on their faces today accentuated the lines on their faces and the white in their formerly fully black hair. Both would admit they were starting to approach old age, but today they truly felt it. Tomorrow, it would just be them in the house, without James whose antics livened up the whole place and his parents.

James had nearly finished his breakfast when his mother again spoke to him. ‘Have you packed all your things? In your trunk?’ Her son squirmed slightly in his seat and started studying his plate very intently.

‘Most of it is in the trunk.’ He said hopefully after a moment’s pause. 

‘Don’t fuss over him Mia, I’m sure he had packed adequately and in fact, is ready to leave the minute he had washed his teeth? After all, he did tell us he had packed everything last night.’ Fleamont teased his son gently, watching the boy squirm with guilt and blush.

‘Weeeeelll,’ James winced. ‘It is mostly in the trunk … or at least in the vicinity of the trunk.’

‘So now we get the truth of it.’ 

‘James, I would have packed for you last night if you had just asked.’ Smiled Euphemia benevolently. ‘If I remember correctly your words were ‘Don’t fuss mum, I’ll be fine packing it myself. I don’t need any help.’ Come on, you brush your teeth, I’ll deal with the packing situation.’

The house elf cleared the table and Fleamont retired to the living room whilst his wife and son went off together. Although he was worried about his son, he thought as he lay back on the sofa after opening the windows in a hopeless attempt to coax a cool breeze into the already stifling room, he was less worried than Euphemia and knew that his son would have the time of his life. Unlike Euphemia, he was also confident that James would make friends quickly due to his lively attitude and love of pranks, one of which Mia had just fell victim to by the sounds of her scolding their son whilst attempting not to laugh. Suddenly, he remembered something.

‘Mia, can you ask James to put on his uniform so that we can take a photo?’

‘Sure. And I think we may need to work on our son’s definition of packing as it is quite different to my definition! It looks like a small, localised whirlwind has occurred.’ She laughed. 

Ten minutes later, a beaming Euphemia entered the room followed by James, with one of the broadest grins his father had ever seen. The black, as yet crestless, robes were exactly the same colour as the mussed hair above them and the uniform was pristine, unused with white shirt tucked in, which Fleamont knew would not last, especially with his son. It took less than a minute for the camera to be set up, but slightly longer as James’ mother noticed his mussed hair and attacked it with a comb, which he tried valiantly to fight off without success. The first photograph was just of James, grinning; the second contained the whole family. 

‘We’ll be able to put that in the album now, and embarrass you as to how cute you looked at eleven when you get older.’ 

‘No! Seriously.’ 

‘Yes. Now let’s get your trunk ready.’ Although James believed that the photo was really just for teasing purposes, in reality, his parents both knew that they wanted a picture of their son when they started to miss him, which they both suspected would be the minute that the train set off. 

‘Dad? We’re going to be really early, it’s still an hour and a half till the train leaves.’ James stated with a slight look of confusion as his father set the trunk at the door. He was back the jeans and t-shirt and lacing his trainers.

‘We would be if we were going straight to the station. As it is we are going to Diagon Alley first. First years aren’t allowed broomsticks, however, your mother and I thought that if we bought you a new one now you could practice during the holidays and hopefully get onto the house team.’ Fleamont relished the expression on his son’s face which went from hopeful, to astounded to wonderfully happy. 

‘Thanks so much!!!!! You are the best parents ever!’ Exclaimed James, jumping up and down before remembering that behaviour like that was not, in his books, ever cool and therefore not acceptable. Projecting an aura of being relaxed and utterly confident and in control was his aim when going to school. He wanted to be one of the best in his subjects and one of the most popular children in the school. In his dreams, he was surrounded by friends and getting ‘O’s in everything. James knew he had the capability to do well, his father was brilliant at charms and had made a fortune in the hair care business and his mother was pretty good at charms, so genetics at least was on his side. He also knew that he could make friends easily. And, although he would not admit it to anybody, even to himself, he knew that he would have to throw himself into Hogwarts life otherwise he could get a little homesick. Despite the way he behaved sometimes, he did love his parents. A lot. 

‘Well, come along then. Where’s Snitch? Are there he is. Here, give him an owl treat, he looks miserable.’

‘James, are you sure that you have got everything? Trunk, yes. Owl, yes. Good, let’s go. Don’t do that to your hair.’ With that the family headed for the fireplace and used the floo powder in the small, Ming vase on the mantel piece.

It was agreed that Euphemia would have tea in one of the small cafes whilst Fleamont and James chose a broom. James refused to hold his father’s hand, even though Diagon Alley was pretty much completely empty as most people were either having a lie in or preparing their offspring for school. The broom shop was completely deserted, which was probably partially the reason for the shop assistant’s warm welcome of them. He inquired as to James’ age, and once told that he was eleven, attempted to remind them of the fact that first years were not allowed brooms. Fleamont reassured him that this was a treat and they were not intending to break the rules, after which the man visibly relaxed.

‘Dad, this one looks amazing!’ James was pointing at the broom in the display case by the shop window.

‘The young man has fine taste. That is the prototype for the new Nimbus. The Nimbus 1000. It will be on sale from November onwards but you can pre-order now if you wish. It will be the fastest broom ever, they are saying. A lot of the international teams will be using it.’

‘Please dad.’ James gazed up at his father with wide, hopeful eyes.

‘Of course. James why don’t you go find your mother and have some tea whilst I pay for this. Then we should probably head for the station.’

Although the broom was expensive, James’ parents would happily buy him anything he wanted, just for the look of happiness on his face. Charlus said that they had completely and utterly spoilt the boy and would regret it in the future, however, they just saw it as taking proper care of their precious son. The family shared tea, Euphemia attempting not to look worried, or worse cry, and Fleamont reassuring her that everything would be ok whilst James was in the toilet. 

Once their son was back, the family collected their son and bags and headed for the nearest fireplace. ‘Well, are you ready to start Hogwarts?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you are enjoying it. Any comments on how I can improve/ what you liked are very much appreciated. Thanks for the kudos! :)


	4. Peter- A Bad Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's morning before going to Hogwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is :)

Peter’s POV- Morning 1st September 1971-  
The happy scene in the Potter house could not have been any more different from the situation unfurling at the same time in the Pettigrew household. The house was small and dirty and in a bad part of London. It may once have been well cared for by the Victorian working-class muggle family which had once inhabited it. The tiled step would have been whole and the red tiles polished carefully by the wife/mother of the house every day. She would also have ensured that the brick front was clean, the windows wiped and the frames newly painted. If she had not, the neighbours would have commented immediately, and she would have been the talk of the neighbourhood. She may have been a Mrs Brown, Smith, Jones, Owens, anything and probably would have had a large number of well turned out children, perhaps lacking shoes but clean and well-presented nonetheless. When Mr Something had returned home, he would have kissed her cheek and gratefully eaten the simple, but well cooked dinner she would have made and then settled down with a pipe.

Since this scene, the neighbourhood had taken a huge turn for the worst. Even its name, Greenfield Street, seemed a cruel irony. The small terraced houses were dirty, the bricks so coated with soot that their original colour could not be guessed at, although now it was a grimy grey-black. Most of the windows were smashed, cracked or so coated with grime that it was impossible to tell their condition, let alone see anything through them. The purpose of these windows was debatable, especially considering that fact that any light which got through would be a miracle. Red tiles were cracked in front of the battered doors and some were even spread over the road, indicating perhaps a fight, or maybe a small riot. Some roofs had holes in them and weeds grew in the tiny front yards. In fact, one would be surprised to hear that the whole road was in fact occupied.

Number 53, the Pettigrew House, was relatively clean by the standards of the rest of the street. Patches of the original brick colour sneaked around the sooty covering. The tiles were mostly whole and there were only a couple of weeds, either with useful properties or pretty flowers. It was occupied by the older Mrs Mildred Pettigrew, her daughter-in-law the younger Mrs Enid Pettigrew and Enid’s son, Peter Pettigrew.

Mrs Mildred Pettigrew, called the Battleship by most of the local children, but definitely not in front of her, was the terror of the road and of her daughter-in-law and grandson. She had rod straight iron grey hair which was always done in a bun at the base of her skull with never a hair astray. Mrs Pettigrew always wore black, in morning for her husband who had died at least twenty-years ago and sat as though she always wore a corset, which she did. She was skinny and mean and deemed all of the modern generation as slatterns and shirkers. It was surprising for those around her when she did not start a sentence with ‘in my day.’ All her neighbours spoke to her politely, for mysterious things happened to those who were disrespectful to her. It would be a while before the street forgot the Patricia Turner case, even though it had occurred more than three years ago now. Pat had been the golden girl of the street. A beautiful seventeen-year-old girl with golden hair always perfectly curled, always well dressed in modern, home-made fashion, always well made-up, bright, constantly laughing and working hard as a telephone operator until her hoped for acting career kicked off. She had already had offers from various play producers and even a possible radio and television. The darling of the street. They were all so proud of her, especially her parents and her brothers, she was their only daughter. She even had a steady boyfriend, Kenny Stevens who worked down the road as a grocer. Everyone loved her, except for Mrs M. Pettigrew. It had all started when Pat had been coming back home from a particularly long shift. She had been trying out a new dress style and had had the misfortune to walk past Mrs Pettigrew’s house whilst the aforementioned lady was looking out of the window. She had shot out of the door at a surprising rate, considering her age of at least eighty and stood in front of Pat, blocking her way. She had called Pat a disgrace for her clothes and that they disgusted her. If the younger woman had just walked on, or apologised, it all would have blown over, however, she was tired and irritable and had told the older woman that it was none of her business how Pat dressed and that it would do her good to lighten up and not be so vile to everyone. She had then stormed off. Any observers may have noticed Mrs Pettigrew’s lips tighten as she stalked back into Number 53. Two weeks later Pat was dead in a hospital morgue, a freak accident. The whole road knew though, they suspected Mrs Pettigrew and became even more wary of her. Children were warned about her and her family. They were deemed strange and dangerous. 

Enid and her son Peter could not have been more different to Mrs M. Pettigrew. Peter’s father had been the apple of his mother’s eye, but his son, Peter, took more after his mother. Enid was small, with mousy-brown hair and large, grey nervous eyes which always had a slightly nervous, haunted look, as if she was waiting for the next blow to come. Peter, other than being chubby, was exactly the same. He demonstrated, according to his grandmother, no recognisable talent and it was, in her frequently expressed opinion, a miracle that he had got into Hogwarts at all, considering the fact that he never did anything right. According to Mrs Pettigrew, he was like his mother, a muggle born, unlike Mrs Pettigrew who considered herself a pure blood witch, whose only interesting life events had been her attendance at Hogwarts and then her marriage, at eighteen, to Mr Pettigrew, who had died in an accident whilst visiting a dragon sanctuary in Romania less than a year later. Peter had been born about a month after. Enid had little imagination and was very docile, she had never even considered moving out of her mother-in-law’s home with her son. She just meekly did the chores under the constant critical gaze of Mrs Pettigrew.

The 1st September 1971 began in the same way as practically every other day in Number 53, Greenfield Road. Peter, sleeping in his small, plain whitewashed room, was woken by the sounds of his grandmother scolding his mother. (‘If you had any self-respect or talent you would have done that properly. Breakfast is cold, the clothes are dirty, the house is filthy. I let you and your useless excuse for a son stay here out of the goodness of my heart and what is it that you do exactly?!?’) He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and placed his pudgy feed on the bare wood floor. After a minute or so, he padded carefully to the door, listened for a moment, then, with a surprising turn of speed seemed to fly into the small, similarly sparse bathroom. Passing by the mirror, he carefully washed, paying special attention to his neck, hands, and behind his ears, knowing that his grandmother would check and attack the offending body party with carbolic soap.

The boy then dressed, folding his blue striped pyjamas and placing them gently in the top of his perfectly packed trunk. The initial P had been painted on the trunk, over a badly scraped off T. It had been his fathers and so had to be well maintained and cared for. After closing the trunk, and putting on a firmly ironed shirt and trousers, he tentatively walked downstairs. Pausing by the kitchen door before entering, assessing the atmosphere.

‘Enid, the bacon is burning. No! Just take it off the stove! You’re a witch are you not, use your wand!’

So, it’s one of those mornings, the eleven-year-old would have thought, if he dared.

‘Peter! Stop skulking behind the door and come in! Hurry up! You’re just like your mother, always looking shifty the both of you! If only Thomas had survived, he would not have put up with this nonsense. He would have given you two your own house so you would be out of my hair and I could enjoy my retirement. He may have even found a use for you. Don’t blubber. Boys in my day would have been ashamed. There’s your breakfast, if you can call it that. Eat.’ 

Enid tentatively smiled at her son as she placed the plate of bacon, eggs, friend potatoes and sausages before him and slipping a pack of Bertie Bott’s every flavour beans into his hand under the table. Luckily for her, Mrs Pettigrew was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of the room and too busy reminiscing to notice her.

‘…Of course if that Norwegian ridgeback hadn’t ….’ The elderly woman did not notice that the daughter-in-law and grandson were not listening to her, the former washing up and the latter focused on his food.

‘You’ve finished. Good. Now wash, as you know cleanliness is next to godliness. And bring your things down. You will not bring further shame on this family by making us late for the train. It’s amazing you will be on it as it is, let’s not tempt fate.’

The boy nearly fell over his own feet in his haste to get away to his grandmother. He only stopped scuttling when the door was firmly shut behind him. Although he was terrified of going to Hogwarts, he was equally terrified of staying here, with his grandmother, whose tongue could cut like a knife, to be honest Peter spent most of his life in a state of fear or terror. His grandmother was right in one respect, he did take after his mother in that way. He was scared of socialising, of not socialising, of lessons, of almost everything. But anything, anything, in his mind had to be better than staying on Greenfield Road, where, even if his grandmother had allowed him to play with the muggle children, their parents would not allow them to play with him, again due to Mildred.

‘Petey? Are you nearly ready? Grandmother says we need to leave in a minute.’ He heard his mother’s whisper through the door. ‘Please come out Pete. She’s getting tetchy, you know how it is.’

The minute he came out of the bathroom, Peter’s mother pulled him into a hug. ‘I love you Pete. And I’ll miss you. Grandmother will too, I think, in her own way. I’m awfully proud of you. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’ She kissed his cheek and smoothed his hair. She did not let him see the fear that ignited in her own heart due to the worried look on her son’s face. ‘You’ll make good friends. I know you will.’

‘Enid! Stop mollycoddling him and let’s get on! He’s got a train to catch!’ 

Pulling out her wand, Enid levitated the trunk and owl cage down the stairs. The owner swiftly followed the trunk.

‘Please tell me you have your wand.’ Peter winced and scampered up the stairs, returning a minute later carrying the item. They all stood by the fireplace in the parlour, which was only used on special occasions. Enid went first, with the trunk and owl, followed by Peter (‘Enunciate, Peter!’) and then Mrs Pettigrew. A dizzy ride later through the floo network, Peter whimpering in terror until he fell headfirst out of the fireplace at the other end. A couple of boys laughed, but were soon chivvied on by their parents. Luckily for Peter’s small amount of confidence, the floo near the station was relatively quiet, as the family were early. 

After collecting himself, and being glared at by his grandmother, Peter scurried after his mother and grandmother down the street and into King’s Cross station. As far as King’s Cross ever is, it was quiet. The muggle families and commuters stared at the motley party, owl and child in tow. However, their interest had waned by the time Peter, Enid and Mrs Pettigrew walked briskly through the barrier and onto the platform beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like Peter as a character particularly to be honest. But, in order for him to become that rat like something must have happened.  
> Anyway, the Marauders meet and get on the train next chapter!!!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you can :)


End file.
